Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king Chapter 102: Confrontation (1)

Chapter 102: Confrontation (1)

Keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners, Alpheo led his men toward the camp at a steady pace. The captured walked in sullen silence, their hands bound tightly, heads lowered in defeat. Every now and then, one of them would glance around nervously, as if waiting for a moment to escape.

As they marched, Alpheo looked up at the sky and noticed the absence of ravens.

They must have already started their feast, he imagined the ghastly sight of them, tearing at the eyes of the dead as their first choice before going towards the nose and whatever part was easy to strip from the bones.

As they neared the camp, Alpheo glanced back at Egil, who had fallen in beside him. “Any word from the men we sent ahead?”

“Not yet,” Egil replied, his brow furrowing. “But they should catch up soon enough.”

“Good. We’ll need every sword we can get if this situation turns sour.” Alpheo’s voice was grim, I hope though I am still just overthinking it…

As Alpheo’s party reached the camp, the sight of his banner rippling in the wind signaled their arrival. The guards at the gate, recognizing the familiar colors, hurriedly opened the wooden doors, allowing the small company to enter. The creak of the gate echoed through the quiet encampment, and Alpheo immediately noticed the sparse presence of men. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen soldiers left, most likely left behind to guard the camp while the bulk of their forces were still scattered after the battle.

Alpheo, without wasting time, dismounted and gave a sharp wave to his men. “Get them inside, lock them away,” he ordered, pointing toward the small makeshift holding area at the far end of the camp. The captured knights were ushered forward, their steps slow and heavy with the weight of defeat. “But not him,” Alpheo added, pointing to the firstborn son of the King of Oizen, who stood among the bound men.

Sorza had been unbound shortly before they entered the camp. Alpheo knew the importance of treating such a high-ranking captive with a measure of dignity. The young prince, despite his capture, carried himself with the quiet defiance that only a prince could muster.

“Take him to one of the empty tents,” Alpheo continued, signaling to a pair of his men. “Treat him well. He’s not to be harmed, make sure he is not injured ” The guards nodded and guided Sorza toward a larger tent on the edge of the camp.

The rest of the prisoners were led away, their armors clinking softly as they were taken toward a small wooden structure serving as a holding cell, where they were first deprived of armor and made to sit on the ground. Alpheo watched them disappear remembering how it felt to pass the night there, before turning to Egil, who had dismounted and was waiting by his side.

“Only a dozen men here,” Alpheo muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes darting around, scanning the camp. He turned to Egil, his expression serious.

“Send 10 men over to the gate,” he ordered, his voice low but firm. “I want it secured, and make sure they don’t do anything rash. If something’s to happen, I want us to control the gate —no chaos, no panic.”

Egil nodded immediately. He gestured to a group of nearby soldiers, relaying Alpheo’s orders with a quick hand signal. Ten men broke away from the main group, marching toward the gate.

Dozens of minutes passed in tense silence. Alpheo paced near the camp’s entrance, his mind racing with thoughts of what might come next.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden gate creaked open with a loud groan. Alpheo turned sharply, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Through the entrance rode a group of 100 soldiers, all bearing the banner of Arkawatt. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and the banner snapped in the wind, its colors vibrant and unmistakable.

The riders poured in, filling the space within the camp,. They halted in formation, their horses snorting and stamping the ground.

Alpheo, standing with his remaining fifty men, looked on, his expression unreadable. His soldiers subtly tightened their grip on their weapons. Fifty men against one hundred.

Arkawatt’s soldiers dismounted, their eyes sweeping over the camp before focusing on Alpheo and his small group.

Arkawatt dismounted from his horse with regal grace, his eyes scanning the camp as Alpheo stood before him. The prince approached with an air of triumph, his rich cloak swirling slightly as he walked. Alpheo bowed once more, offering a respectful nod as they exchanged pleasantries.

“The battle went better than expected,” Arkawatt said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “You’ve done well, Alpheo. A victory well earned.”

Alpheo returned the compliment, offering a polite smile. “It’s only through your guidance, Your Grace. Your strategies led us to victory.”

Arkawatt chuckled, waving off the praise. “Still, the execution was yours. Tell me, how fares the spoils of this victory?”

At that question, Alpheo’s smile faltered ever so slightly. He knew this moment would come, but there was no hiding it now. He drew in a breath, steadying himself. “Your Grace,” he began carefully, “we captured thirty knights from the field, all accounted for and bound.”

Arkawatt’s brow lifted slightly as he awaited more.

“And… among them,” Alpheo continued, hesitating for a moment, “is Sorza. The firstborn son of the Prince of Oizen.”

For a split second, there was a pause between them. Alpheo knew there was no point in hiding the truth—Arkawatt would discover it soon enough. The prince’s eyes gleamed with interest, though his face remained unreadable. Alpheo felt a slight tension in the air, wondering how Arkawatt would react to holding such a valuable hostage.

Alpheo stood tall as he rose to his feet, his voice steady yet firm. “I would like to remind His Grace of the clauses in our contract,” he said, meeting Arkawatt’s gaze without faltering. “Every spoil taken during the war is the property of the band—be it gold, silver, or prisoners.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Arkawatt’s guards immediately reacted, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords, sensing the tension that had arisen. The prince remained silent for a moment, his face a careful mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it.

“That man is no ordinary spoil, Alpheo,” Arkawatt said, his tone laced with authority. “The son of the Prince of Oizen is too high in position to be left in the care of common mercenaries. His value is far beyond coin or ransom. I cannot allow him to remain in your hands.”

Alpheo’s expression remained flat and unreadable, though his heart beat faster. He had expected this, but he wasn’t about to give in. “I appreciate Your Grace’s concern,” he said coolly, “but the terms of our agreement are clear. Sorza is a spoil of this battle, and by that right, he belongs to the band. His fate will be decided by us. Of course, I would be more than happy to hand him over for the right price,” he concluded.

Arkawatt’s smile tightened. “We may speak of this later. For now, the prisoner will be under my treatment.”

“I fear that may not be possible until we reach an agreement, Your Grace,” Alpheo answered.

Tension rose in the air. “You overstep, Captain,” he said sharply. “This is not a mere matter of loot. I request—no, I demand—that the Oizen’s heir be placed under my authority.”

Alpheo’s refusal was as calm as it was final. “I must decline, Your Grace.”

That was enough. Arkawatt’s guards, already on edge, drew their swords in unison, the metallic ring cutting through the air. Alpheo’s men responded immediately, their own blades flashing in the sunlight, stepping protectively in front of their captain. Both sides stood ready for violence. The camp suddenly became a standoff between mercenaries and royal guards.Neither the prince nor Alpheo made sign to defuse the situation.

Alpheo remained steady, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes fixed on Arkawatt. “We fought for this victory, Your Grace. We bled for it, and we gave it to you .We will not relinquish what is rightfully ours.” His voice cut through the silence, daring the prince to act.

Arkawatt’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of drawn blades and defiant mercenaries. He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Alpheo’s with a piercing intensity. The moment stretched, filled with an electric tension as if the entire camp held its breath.

“Are you truly ready for this, Captain?” Arkawatt asked, his voice low and menacing. “Do you understand what you’re risking here? A few coins and a contract against the wrath of a prince? Would you die for it?”

His words were a challenge, a thinly veiled threat wrapped in princely authority. Arkawatt’s fingers twitched at his side, his sword still sheathed, but the implication of violence hung heavy between them. His guards stood at attention, their swords gleaming, waiting for a command.

Alpheo’s men bristled, but the captain himself remained unmoved. He met Arkawatt’s gaze without flinching, his jaw set with calm resolve.

“I understand perfectly, Your Grace,” Alpheo said, his voice steady as stone. “The question is—do you?”

The tension snapped like a coiled spring, sending everyone into a frenzy. One of Arkawatt’s guards, eyes blazing with fury, was the first to act. He lunged forward with a savage swing of his sword, aiming directly for Alpheo. The speed and ferocity of the attack caught many off guard, included the captain himself.

Just before the blade could reach him, a heavy shield slammed into place. Vroth, one of Alpheo’s trusted guards, had leaped into action. His large round shield intercepted the strike with a deafening clang, saving Alpheo from the swing.

The moment the sword struck, all hell broke loose.

Alpheo’s men, already on edge, drew their swords and axes in an instant, roaring in anger as they hacked the guards ahead of them. Arkawatt’s guards responded just as quickly, their blades gleaming as they clashed with the mercenaries. Chaos erupted in the camp as steel met steel, the ringing sound of swords clashing reverberating through the air.

Men grappled and swung wildly at each other. Dust kicked up from the ground as bodies collided, and the once orderly camp turned into a chaotic battlefield. Shouts of anger and confusion mixed with the sharp cries of pain, as blood spilled on both sides.

Alpheo ducked beneath a swing from another of Arkawatt’s men, his reflexes sharp. He turned, catching a glimpse of Arkawatt himself, now surrounded by his own guards as the prince barked furious orders, his face twisted in rage.

“Protect the prince!” someone screamed, as both sides became locked in a desperate struggle, neither willing to back down.

Vroth, still shielding Alpheo, bashed the attacker away with a forceful shove, sending the guard stumbling back as he smashed the man’s chest with his mace.

The battle Alpheo had feared, in the end, had arrived.

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